Recovery
by cornergoddess
Summary: Focuses on House's recovery at home after his infarction and Wilson's attempts to get him back on his feet (pun intended). Sequel to 'Before', but can be read alone. house!whump, house/wilson friendship, hurt/comfort, house!pain. This is my second fic. Please read and review! Any constructive criticism or praise is welcome! Also check out my other fic, 'Before'.
1. Chapter 1

He was home. No more hospital beds, no more white walls, no more nurses, no more drugged haze...well, actually the haze was still there. Wilson had been dispensing endless medications, and for that he was grateful because otherwise he wouldn't be able to lie in bed nearly as comfortably. Not that he was necessarily comfortable. His leg still ached, and every time he shifted he was forced to let out an inhuman shriek. Every time this happened, Wilson ran to his bedside.

"Are you OK? Do you need medicine? How bad is the pain? Can you give me a number?"

It was annoying. He wished he could just be alone, but he had to depend on Wilson for everything. He couldn't even get up to piss. Instead, it was a long process of pulling his broken body into a wheelchair, accompanied with lots of screaming and Wilson's platitudes.

He had only been home for a day, but he knew this wouldn't change for awhile. Right now, he was lying in bed with his leg propped, something that Wilson stressed.

"We need to get the swelling down," he urged. House didn't say anything. He wasn't really talking to his de-facto nurse. Every time he saw the oncologist, a new wave of rage overtook him. How could Wilson do this to his friend? House had said what he wanted and he had ignored it. Stacey he could understand, but Wilson was a doctor and had known him since medical school. He had had thousands of dying patients, and House could not remember a time when Wilson had gone against their wishes. It wasn't fair. He shouldn't have begged to be put into that coma. He shouldn't have showed them how much pain he was in.

"House?" Wilson said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Is that...a question...or do you want something?" House asked, trying to be snide, but all that he managed to be was pathetic. He was so pathetic.

"It's time to change your dressings. How are you feeling?"

House groaned, this time not from pain. This was his least favorite part of the day. Every day around noon, Wilson would come in and say the same thing. Then he would change the dressings, which was excruciating for House, especially when Wilson put the antibiotic ointment on his stitched, scarring wound. The worst part, though, was that he could see in Wilson's brown eyes that he felt sorry for this friend. He would try to distract him during the process with discussion of wrestling, or the latest football game, but House only answered in grunts. How could Wilson talk about these things when his life was falling apart? He would probably never walk again, and Wilson wanted to talk about sports.

"Bad...just get it over with…"

"Do you want your meds first or do you want them after?"  
"Before…"

Wilson gave House the pills and he barely swallowed them. Seeing his friend's struggle, Wilson suggested, "If you can't keep those down I can give you a shot."

House really couldn't keep much down these days. Pain tended to cause everything to come up. Sure enough, within the first few minutes of Wilson unwrapping the bandages, House gagged and threw up. He missed the trash can this time. _Serves him right_, House thought.

"It's OK...I'll clean it up in a minute. Give me your arm." Wilson said it like a suggestion, but he took his friend's limp arm and injected the morphine without any input. House relaxed a little. Wilson continued to change the bandages.

"How's your pain today?"

House grunted.

"Can you give me a number?"

House started to tell him off, but all that came out was a shriek as Wilson moved his leg to get the last of the bandages off. Tears sprung to his eyes and fell onto his cheeks.

"It's alright...it's OK. Almost done."

House shook his head. "Leave it...needs some air…"

"I can't...it'll get infected. Sorry. Just sit tight."

House clenched the sheets with pale knuckles as Wilson put on the antibiotics. He couldn't hold it in anymore let out a strangled scream, leaning his head back on the pillow.

"House?" Wilson was by his head now, stroking House's damp hair. House was panting.

"No...more...just...go…"

"I'm almost done. I can't just leave it."

"GO!"

Wilson sighed and gingerly lifted his friend's leg and wrapped bandages around it. Tight, but not too tight. House continued to shriek and moan. When he was finished, the younger doctor went back to the head of his friend's bed.

"House…? Pain scale?"

He was tired of that question. "T-TEN! IT'S ALWAYS AT FUCKING TEN!"

Wilson backed up. "Always? Even with the meds?"

"YES! ALWAYS! AND YOU DID THIS TO ME! I'M NEVER GOING TO WALK AGAIN AND IT'S YOUR GODDAMN FAULT!" House was crying harder now,clutching the sheets.

"House...there was nothing we could do...I'm so sorry. I really am."

"JUST GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Wilson sighed and left the room. This was not the Gregory House he knew. The Gregory House he knew was sarcastic. The Gregory House he knew was ornery but caring, even if he wouldn't admit it. The Gregory House he knew was not in this much pain. He couldn't even imagine.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, House heard Wilson talking on the phone. In his half-awake state, he could only make out part of Wilson's side of the conversation.

"I just don't know what to do at this point, Lisa...not getting better…"

There was silence. House knew who his friend was talking to. Lisa Cuddy, dean of medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. House had talked to her once or twice, but not at length and mostly only to look down the scooping neck of whatever revealing shirt she was wearing that day.

"No, Lisa… not suing...your fault."

Not suing? House wanted to hurt anyone who had anything to do with the state he was in. Even as he was sitting still in bed, his midnight dosage of morphine was wearing off, and he could feel his body drifting into the ever-present chasm of pain. He wanted to call for Wilson,but he also didn't want to see the other doctor's concerned face. He didn't want to be reminded of the mistakes his friend had made to lead House to this condition. He also didn't want Wilson to remember his PT appointment this morning. He had been having appointments twice or three times a week in the hospital, and it was always torture. They would maneuver his leg up and down, side to side, while he lie in bed, arching his back and screeching, sometimes even begging pathetically for the therapist to stop. They usually didn't, citing his need for recovery. Recovery his ass. He didn't know if he would ever be close to the same person he used to be. He was doomed to be a quivering, sweaty, screaming cripple.

Wilson came into his room after his phone call ended. "Hey. Ready?"

"No…"

Wilson sighed. "You won't get better if you don't go…the muscles will atrophy worse."

"Won't get better...if I do go."

"That's not true." Wilson looked at the newly disabled doctor. Seeing that the pain seemed to be ramping up again, he handed his friend his morning dosages. House seemed grateful for this.

"Let's get you up," Wilson said, wheeling a padded wheelchair next to House's bed. "I'll help you get in the bath first and then we can go, OK?"

House really didn't want his friend seeing him naked. "No."

"House, you reek. You haven't bathed in what, two weeks? I'm not arguing with you."

House sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands. Wilson helped him sit up so his legs swung over the edge of his king-sized bed. House sucked his breath in as his leg was maneuvered, but he didn't scream for once. Wilson gently helped him into the wheelchair, ensuring his bad leg didn't touch the ground. He wheeled his friend to the bathroom. House took off his shirt and tugged at his pants, unable to lift his hips to get them off. Wilson gently put his hand on the small of his friend's back and lifted, tugging off the man's pants and underwear. House sat there, buck naked, cold and embarrassed. He was like a child. Slowly, Wilson wheeled the chair to the bath and helped House in, starting the water. He unwrapped the bandages around House's mangled limb.

"Should I go now?"

House nodded. He just wanted to be alone for awhile. For the rest of his life, actually.

He stared down at the scar tissue forming on his thigh. He gingerly touched it, winced, and jerked back. It was still an open wound, with red surrounding the scarring. His right leg was about twice the size of his left.

Suddenly, he couldn't take it. It was too much. He had been healthy! More than the average person, actually. He played badminton, golfed, played pickup basketball on the weekends. He was more fit than a guy his age should have been. He punched the tile of the bathroom wall, and felt his fist sting. He couldn't feel it much because of the morphine, but it was enough. He sobbed quietly, his head in his hands.

"House?" Wilson knocked on the door, concerned.

"GO AWAY!" House shouted angrily.

Wilson did the opposite, coming in to check on him. "What happened?"

House didn't answer, instead he continued sobbing into his hands. Before he knew it, Wilson was next to him. "Is it your leg?"

"No, it's not my fucking leg!"

"What is it then?" Wilson mothered.

House continued crying. Wilson rubbed his bare back. He slowly helped House back into his wheelchair and into his room to get dressed, deciding not to question him any further. Despite what some may think of James Wilson, he knew when to shut up.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Happy Easter!**

The physical therapy department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had an air of athleticism about it. There were weights against the walls, a track out back, even signed posters from the many famous athletes that had passed through its doors. It made House feel sick; reminded him of everything he'd lost.

Wilson parked his friend's wheelchair in the waiting area and went up to register. House sat, catatonic, not having enough energy or will to analyse the room too deeply.

"Gregory House," Wilson said to the woman at the front desk. She looked him up and down suspiciously.

"Oh! No!" Wilson exclaimed, laughing a little, realizing her mistake. "I'm his friend. He's over there. Can we just get the paperwork please?"

The receptionist nodded, giving him a clipboard and pen. The oncologist walked over to where he had parked his friend's chair, and started filling out the paperwork. The receptionist glared.

"He needs to fill that out himself," she ordered.

"Oh! Sorry!" Wilson apologized. He gave the pen and clipboard to House.

NAME: House AGE: 23 SEX: Yes

REASON FOR VISIT: I'm being kidnapped. Send help.

MEDICATIONS: All of them

"House!" Wilson exclaimed. "You can't write that!"

House glared at his friend, daring him to do something about it. Wilson sighed, knowing there was no way to stop him without making a huge scene.

"Mr. House?" a smiling nurse called from the doorway. House pretended not to hear. Wilson sighed. His friend was being especially difficult today.

"That's us," he said, wheeling House back into the room. A younger woman wearing scrubs and a ponytail smiled at them

"You must be Dr. House. I'm Dr. Smith." She shook his limp hand. He grunted in faint acknowledgement. She took the clipboard out of his hand.

"Oh! I'm sorry, that's not-" Wilson warned her. To his and House's surprise, the woman laughed.

"This paperwork's pretty much pointless anyway. It's not like I didn't look at your file."

Wilson could see the famed diagnostician sizing his new therapist up, trying to figure her out.

"So what I'm seeing in your records is that a few weeks ago, you had a blood clot in your right leg that caused muscle death. Is that correct?" She smiled.

House didn't answer, so Wilson jumped in. "Yes, that's correct. He had physical therapy in the hospital and he didn't enjoy it. In fact, he ran off two therapists. I'm pretty sure you're the only one in the hospital he hasn't yet run off."

The woman laughed again. "Alright, well I take that in stride. Dr. House, why don't you hop on the exam table for me?"

House gave her one of his signature glowers. "_Hop_? I don't think I'll be hopping anywhere ever again, thanks."

"Oh, I'm sorry sir. That was a poor choice of words."

"And _don't _call me sir."

"Alright," Dr. Smith said smoothly, "Dr. House then. I hear you're pretty important. What kind of doctor are you?"  
"Diagnostician."

The woman looked confused for a split second but then decided not to question her patient further. With Dr. Wilson's help, she lifted House onto the examination table. He whimpered in pain.

"How bad would you say the pain is daily?"

"Ten."

"And with medication?"  
"Ten. Can I go now?"

"No," Wilson glared.

"Would you mind if I took a look at your leg?" Dr. Smith asked.

"Yes."

"Yes you'd mind or yes I can look at it?"

"Yes, I'd mind!" House barked.

"House, please…" Wilson pleaded. House looked at his friend's big brown eyes and relented. There was no use in arguing, and it was taking up all his energy. Wilson took off his friend's loose-fitting sweatpants to expose the heavily bandaged leg, and unburdened it from the wraps as House bit his lip hard.

"Sorry…" Wilson offered. Gently, the physical therapist probed at House's leg, causing him to turn his face towards the wall and scream in agony. Wilson went over to hold his friend's hand, but House either refused to take it or wasn't aware it had been offered to him.

"So, I'm seeing this is still swollen. What have you been using to keep that down?" The question was more addressed to Wilson than his limp friend.

"We've been elevating it and using hot baths."

"Have you tried icing it?"  
Suddenly, fear crossed House's face. "No...no ice…"

"Why not House? It would probably help and it might feel good." Wilson pondered.

"I said no."

Wilson shrugged. "Okay…" He knew there was no use in arguing with Gregory House.

Dr. Smith's voice cut through the awkward silence. "Okay, I'm going to show you some exercises you can do at home." Without a lot of warning, the doctor took House's leg and slowly moved it upward towards his body. House screamed in agony, flailing against her grip.

"Put it down!" Wilson panicked. The doctor obliged. House was panting, panic in his eyes. He gripped the sides of the table with pale knuckles. His eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling.

"Okay, well maybe we'll leave that one for a little later. Sorry about that Dr. House…" She did genuinely seem sorry, but House didn't answer. Tears streamed out of his eyes and onto the table.

"Could you just write them down for me please? I think he's had enough for now." Wilson made the impression of asking, but everyone in the room knew it was an order.

"Of course. He needs his rest. Just some gentle moving side to side and bending the knee should be just fine for now. I'll see you later this week?"

Wilson nodded and whisked House out of the office and back home.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I just wanted to thank Rhastahippy for reviewing every chapter of this story! I really appreciate it and hope he/she continues to do so! **

**Also, this chapter does contain a lot of pain, so if you like that, great! If you don't, it has a purpose. There are also mild depictions of child abuse in this chapter.**

House lay in bed, stewing in his own misery. His leg was angrier than before, like a monster trying to escape its chains. He bit at his fist in an attempt to muffle the screams coming from deep in his throat. He touched his leg, felt the sharp pain and the empty space where his muscle should have been. It wasn't there. Stacey was gone for good. He knew that the moment she left the hospital for the final time. He would never walk again.

Wilson came into his room in response to his screaming. "It's OK...breathe through it. Should I call someone…? How bad is it?"

"Shut UP!" House screamed. "It's your fault! It's your fault I'll never walk again! OW!" he screamed.

"I'm sorry...I should have talked to you. Is that what you want to hear? But you were in so much pain, House...it was our only option."

"You had lots of other options!" House said, then screamed again, his leg going into spasm. The screams became uncontrollable then, and he couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't think. He felt a stab in his arm and passed out.

_He was cold. He was so cold. He could feel his fingers turning blue and his heart slowing, preparing for hibernation. A large hand pushed him down into the ice and the freezing water entered his lungs. He counted. 1...2...3...4...5...He bobbed to the surface._

"_You'll never amount to anything! You'll be lucky to wash dishes for a living!"_

_He thrashed against the man's grip like a fish just caught._

Wilson was awakened by a crash, then shrill shrieks that reverberated throughout the house. His eyes snapped open.

"House?!" He ran into House's room to find his friend lying on the blue carpeted floor, holding his leg and screaming uncontrollably. The oncologist knelt next to him and checked his pulse. Tachycardia. He rubbed his friend's back in slow circles. The screaming didn't stop.

"House. Let me look." His friend couldn't answer, so he turned him over onto his back and pulled his pants down slightly. His leg was already bruising, and the trauma of falling had caused him to rip a stitch. He wailed, out of his mind in pain and unable to think. His head was roaring. His vision was turning black. He willed himself to pass out, or die, anything that would relieve the mind-numbing agony he was feeling. Wilson sensed his friend was about to be unconscious, and lightly smacked his arm.

"Stay with me! I'm calling an ambulance, OK? Don't go to sleep, please." He turned on his phone and dialed those three fateful numbers.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My friend just had surgery and he fell out of bed and popped a stitch. He's in a lot of pain and his heart is pumping too fast. Please get here soon. And bring sedatives."

"Yes sir, someone's on their way."

Wilson hung up the phone. He kept rubbing House's back, then metaphorically slapped himself. The morphine! He had just given his friend some a few hours ago but another dose was all he could do, and he needed to do something.

He ran to the cabinet and grabbed a vial, then ran to his friend. He grabbed House's arm and struggled to find a vein.

"Come on…" he muttered to himself. Finally, he stuck the needle in. His friend's screaming died down to a moan. His startlingly blue eyes stared up at Wilson's with fear and panic.

"It's OK...the ambulance is coming. I know it hurts. Just breathe…"

His breath came in short bursts, wheezing and moaning.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Just wanted to let you all know that this story is finished and saved on my computer; it just needs to be posted! Also, to the guest reviewer who said 'ouch, I think I felt that' in response to the last chapter, I sincerely hope you didn't haha. Also, sorry this chapter is kinda short but I have a few long ones coming up so never fear!**

The paramedics wheeled House into the hospital where Lisa Cuddy stood. As soon as she saw him, she sprang into action, hooking up the EKG and drips.

"Dr. House? What happened?"

"Nggggnnnn…." was all that came out of the diagnostician's mouth. Wilson offered his hand and House blindly squeezed it.

"He fell out of bed," Wilson offered.

Cuddy held open his eye and checked his ocular reflexes. "Dr. House, did you hit your head?"

When House didn't answer, Wilson shook his head. "I don't think so. He hit his leg though. His stitch needs to be redone."

Cuddy nodded and grabbed a suture kit, quickly fixing the stitch. House screamed when she touched his leg.

"It's OK...you're OK…" Wilson comforted. House screamed on, struggling.

"Sedative!" Dr. Cuddy called, and a nurse obliged. House slipped into darkness.

Wilson sighed. "Thanks, Lisa...sorry to interrupt you…"

"That's OK. Nothing was really happening. He won't need to be admitted. Once he's lucid again you can take him home."  
Wilson nodded, still holding his friend's hand.

A few minutes later, House woke up and slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was the ceiling. Then he turned his head over to see the rest of the room, and he was greeted with a blurry Wilson, holding his head in his hands.

"What happened…" he asked groggily.

"You fell out of bed. I don't know why you were trying to get out of bed in the first place..." Wilson's face was tear-streaked and red

"I wasn't…" Slowly it all came rushing back to him. The nightmare. The feeling of ice on his back and his lips chattering together, the sound of his father screaming in his ear."_You're not good enough! You'll never be good enough!"_

"House?" Wilson prompted, thinking his friend was falling asleep again.

"Just take me home...please."

Wilson sighed. "House...I'm so sorry. I should have talked to you. I shouldn't have-" the tears sprang to his eyes again.

"Just take me home."

Wilson nodded and gently lifted his friend out of the bed. It was getting easier and easier to exact these maneuvers as House lost weight. _I should make him eat something… _Wilson thought absently. House retched when he stood up, nausea from pain and pain medication overtaking him. He threw up, the bile dripping down his shirt. Wilson gently wiped his mouth and got him a scrub shirt.

"Sorry...antiemetics when we get home." House didn't answer, glaring weakly at him.

Wilson looked into his friend's eyes and saw hopelessness. This was something he had never seen in House. There was always hope. Hope for his patients, hope for his relationships, hope for Wilson...but not now. His leg was irreparable. Even Wilson knew he'd never regain full function, and House would never be happy with anything less than 100%. So House would never be happy. And it was all Wilson's fault.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, House lie in bed, his leg wracked with spasms. Falling on his ass last night hadn't helped. He looked at the clock. It read 5:00. One hour before Wilson would come in with his liquid relief. An hour he didn't know if he could face.

"Wilson?!" he called with as much force as he could muster.

Wilson got up from his uncomfortable position on the couch and went into House's room.

"Yeah?" he worried.

"Meds…" House croaked. Wilson nodded and went to get his morning injection, expertly slipping the needle into the crook of his arm. His friend relaxed.

"Drink this. You need fluids," Wilson said, holding out a cup of water adorned with a straw. House clumsily kept down a few sips.

"Beer'd be better.." House complained.

"PT again today. 12:00," Wilson informed, ignoring the whining. As an afterthought, he added, "Maybe we can go to lunch after?" He needed to get his friend to eat or he would disappear completely before Wilson's eyes.

"I'll throw it up."

"You're taking antiemetics. You shouldn't be throwing anything up."

"'M not hungry," the older man tried again.

"Too bad. We're going to lunch. Where do you wanna go?"

"McDonald's."

"House...you're a doctor."

"Do you want me to eat or not?"

Wilson sighed. He had a nagging feeling that the only reason House picked McDonald's was because he knew it was Wilson's least favorite restaurant. Whatever. At least maybe he'd get something on his stomach.

At PT, House sweated as the doctor bent his knee. He couldn't feel it on his leg as much as what she had done last session, but it still hurt. Involuntary tears fell onto the table, and he tried to tell himself it was a side effect of the morphine.

Dr. Smith broke the silence. "So, where are you from?" she tried to distract him.

"K-kentucky," he panted. "T-then Japan...Germany...Saudi Arabia...ahhh…" he winced.

Dr. Smith nodded. "You traveled a lot?"

"Military...brat…"

"Oh! Me too!"

"Good for you...now put my leg down…"

She set his leg on the table and rewrapped it, then helped him with his pants. She could see from his face that he was exhausted and pained.

"Do you have a ride?" she asked. Her patient nodded. She wheeled him out to the waiting room where Wilson was waiting. He wheeled his pale friend out of the hospital.

"How was it?" he asked.

"Torture. Can we just go home…?"

"Nope. You've been in bed for a month now. Time to reintegrate into the world."

House sighed, his leg aching dully. All he really wanted was a nap.

Wilson jolted the chair a little as he got House out of the car. He started awake.

"You can sleep when we get home."

House looked at the restaurant differently than he had before. He could see there was no ramp that Wilson could get the wheelchair up.

"Jimmy."

"I know, it's out back," the oncologist said, reading his friend's mind.

When they finally got in, Wilson pushed the chair through the lunch rush and ordered for himself.

"What do you want?" he asked House.

House sighed. "I'm not hungry."

"I know. But if you were what would you want?"

"Big Mac."

Wilson ordered the cholesterol-raising sandwich, got their food, and wheeled House to a table. His leg was jolted as they went through the doorway. He grimaced and held the sides of the chair.

"Sorry. You OK?"

He nodded slightly staring at his food. He felt nauseous even looking at it.

"Just a few bites and then I'll leave you alone."

A child was staring at the next table, twisted around in his seat to see House. House resisted the urge to flip him the bird. He covered his leg self-consciously with one of his large hands. The child continued until his mom turned him around and told him it was rude to stare. _Was this what it was going to be like? _He asked himself.

"House. Eat."

The newly disabled man turned around and took the smallest bite possible of his burger. Food hadn't stayed on his stomach since he'd been in the hospital. All he'd had was drugs.

"You need to eat more than that. I'm worried about you, House. You've lost about twenty pounds since you've been in the hospital."

"Yeah. And a pound of that was the muscle in my leg. Which you thought would be a great idea to hack off."

"I'm sorry. We've been over this. Please just eat something."

House took another cautious bite of his burger, and ate a fry. Wilson had already finished his meal and was now looking over at the play area where children climbed the equipment.

"One of yours out there?" House asked.

"One of my what?" Wilson puzzled.

"Your sick kids."

"My sick kids are at the hospital, not at McDonald's. This is the worst place for them to be."

House shrugged. "I'm done." He gestured at his burger.

"One more bite."

"But moooommmm," House whined.

"Hey, I forgot to tell you. I made an appointment for you tomorrow with one of my friends. She's a surgeon. I'm worried about the swelling in your leg and the lack of pain management you're getting."

"I don't want to."

"Why?"

"I don't need more people probing my leg. I need to come to terms with the fact that I'll probably never walk again because of you and Stacey." His voice caught on his former girlfriend's name. It was the first time he had said it out loud after she left.

"The surgeon said you could get as much as 90% function back. Don't you want that?"

"Of course I do. But it's not realistic. I can't even sit up on my own."

"I really think my friend can help you. And House? She's hot. And single."

House groaned. "Finnnnneeeee"

"Great! 1:00 tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

Three in the morning. Four hours since his last dose of morphine. He can't even last six damn hours without a hit.

As he's biting down on his pillow and screaming, he feels a soft hand on his back, rubbing in circles.

"It's OK...busy day yesterday. Please just try to relax."

"Try to relax?! Try to fucking relax?!" The pain crescendoed and he screamed, forgetting to bite down on something. Wilson continued to rub his back, pressing House's head against his chest as he shook and screamed.

"I can't give you another dose for two hours...do you think you can last?"

House shook his head, and screamed again into Wilson's chest.

"Well you're going to have to. Do you want the TV? Or Gameboy…?"

House shook, not answering. He was totally at the mercy of his friend, who decided when he got meds, when he got up, what he ate...and he hated it. But he didn't know how to do anything differently right now.

"How bad?"

He held up all of his fingers against Wilson's chest. "Okay...we can try some Demerol…? Would that be good?"

House nodded, and screamed again. "Hurry…"

Wilson untangled himself from House, his pajamas wet from tears, and injected the meds. House relaxed a little. Wilson decided to stay until he fell asleep, and kept rubbing his back. He could feel the man's spine with every motion.

The next morning, Wilson awoke with his head lying next to House's body. He had fallen asleep on a wheely chair. House was already awake, looking better than he had last night.

"Hey." Wilson greeted him.

"Hey…"

Wilson got up to make breakfast. "What do you want?"

"Pancakes…"

"Okay. Do you want blueberries?"

House shook his head. In truth, he didn't really want to eat anything, but he knew his friend wouldn't take no for an answer.

Filled with pancakes and orange juice, the men made their way to the office of Lisa Cuddy, MD, whom Wilson had known since he first started at PPTH. She was an average height woman whose most distinguishing feature was her large breasts coupled with a tendency to accentuate them by wearing the most low-cut shirts she could find. Nevertheless, she was a good leader and Wilson respected and liked her.

She was waiting for them when Wilson wheeled a catatonic-looking House into the office. The diagnostician had just gotten a dose of morphine at his insistence in preparation for all the 'poking and prodding' he assumed Cuddy would be doing.

Even though House's head felt like it was full of cotton, he registered pleasure as he stared at the woman's breasts, which he was at the optimal angle to see due to his chair. Wilson could hear him make a joyful moaning noise as he stared, and flicked his shoulder lightly.

"Hi Lisa. This is Dr. House. He's a bit sedated right now from the morphine I gave him this morning."

"The pain's been that bad? How often has he needed the morphine?" the dean of medicine asked.

"I give him a dose every morning. He usually wakes up screaming."

Cuddy nodded. "Does he need booster doses throughout the day?"

"Yes, especially when I change his dressings."

"Alright. Let's get you into an exam room, Dr. House."

House nodded sleepily and allowed himself to be wheeled into the exam room. Wilson draped his friend's arm around his shoulders and awkwardly lifted him up onto the exam table, gently lifting his hips to pull down his pants and unwrap the bandages encasing his leg.

"May I take a look, Dr. House?" Cuddy asked.

House was too busy staring at her chest to answer.

"Sorry...he's really out of it I guess. I didn't give him that much," Wilson apologized.

"That's OK." she accepted, and checked the incision. House winced despite the morphine.

"Since I consulted on this, he's gotten worse. I did advise Stacey that this was the best course of action, though, and I stand by that."

House glared at her. "It was _you_?"

"What was me?" Cuddy asked.

House was shaking with anger. "You told her to do this to me."

"I…" Cuddy stammered.

"House. We're not doing this. It's not her fault."

House sighed, too tired to have another person to blame.

Cuddy turned to her patient. "Dr. House, can you bend your knee?"

House didn't respond, eyes drooping.

"House," Wilson prompted. This seemed to pull his friend out of his spaced-out state.

"No," he answered."

"Can you try?" Cuddy asked.

"No."

"Yes, you can, House, I've seen you do it." Wilson said.

Reluctantly, House slightly bent his knee and whimpered. Cuddy nodded.

"Who's his PT?" she asked.

"Dr. Smith. He's been doing some stretching but he's not ready to try and get up yet. She says his leg is still very weak but it's improving."

"Any nausea?"

Wilson nodded.

"Alright, well Dr. House I'm going to prescribe you an antidepressant to help with pain and alertness and Demerol for breakthrough pain. I'd like you to come back in two weeks to see how that's working. Sound OK?"

House nodded sleepily, still staring at her chest.

"And I need to draw some blood for a liver and kidney function test. That OK?"

"Thanks for seeing him, Lisa," Wilson said.

After Cuddy drew a few vials of blood, Wilson wheeled House back to the car, helping him adjust painfully in the seat.

"Why'd you stare at her like a vegetable the whole time? I didn't give you that much morphine."

"I have to get something out of being an invalid."

"You're not-never mind. Do you wanna watch wrestling at home?"

"I wanna sleep."

"Too bad. We're watching wrestling. If you fall asleep that's fine. You need to get out of that bed for awhile. You're getting sores."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey! Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far; I really appreciate it! If any of you are taking betas, I would really like to find one to read my already completed next fic. If anyone's interested, please PM or comment!**

House awoke the next morning to the sound of...drilling? Construction work? An especially loud and annoying auditory hallucination?

"Jimmy!" he shouted down the hall. The drilling stopped and the oncologist rushed in.

"What's wrong?" he said worriedly.

"Why are you drilling?"

"Oh. Sorry, did I wake you up?"

House glared. "Did the excessively loud grinding of drywall wake me up? Hm, I wonder."

"Sorry. I'm putting a support bar in the bathroom. For when you get back on your feet."

House glared again. "I won't need it. PT's going well."

Wilson gave his friend a look of disbelief.

"Okay, so it's going terrible, but I don't need a freaking old person bar. What's next? A walker?"

"Actually a walker isn't a bad idea. Your PT will probably recommend it eventually."

House groaned. "Just get my meds."

Wilson obliged, dropping a few pills of various sizes and shapes into his hand. He popped them into his mouth before Wilson could get him a cup of water.

"You got a letter, by the way." Wilson handed House an official-looking envelope and waited for him to open it.

"It's not porn and it's not anything you'd care about. Keep participating in the Save the Cripple Foundation. I'm sure you'll make president someday."

Wilson reluctantly left, even though House rarely got letters that weren't porn or spam.

After his friend was out of the room, House tore open the letter.

_Due to prolonged absence and repeated strikes, your position at Mercy Memorial Hospital has been terminated._

House sighed. Even though he had known this was coming, and even though he didn't call in his absences because he didn't want everyone at work to know he was a cripple now. He couldn't have taken the sad stares and the handicap parking spot and everyone having to see him limp around every damn day. He'd just consult from home. He already had lots of emails from colleagues and randoms who wanted him to consult on their cases.

"Jimmy! Get my computer!" he ordered over the drilling. The grinding stopped.

"What'd the letter say?" his friend asked nosily.

"Turns out it was porn after all. Need my computer to watch it."

Wilson sighed. At least his friend was in a better mood this morning and didn't seem to be in too much pain. He grabbed the laptop and handed it to House, who tried to place it on his lap before he remembered. Damnit. His leg.

"You might want to get up."

"No shit. Help me." He pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position, arms shaking.

"You need to try and do it by yourself, House. I know you've been working on transferring from lying down to sitting up. Why don't you try it?"

"No."

"House, you have to get back on your feet sometime. I know you can do it."

House sighed. He did want to walk again. It was just that he didn't think it would be possible. He stared down at his thigh, or more accurately, the missing piece. Slowly, he swung his left leg to the edge of the bed. Not so bad. But the second his moved his right leg even an inch, pain swelled and he squeaked like a baby mouse who lost his mother. He looked at Wilson.

"Try again. Use your hands to support the leg if you have to. And take it slow. We don't have anywhere to go until noon."

"Where are we going at noon?" House asked, dreading the answer.

"PT. And then the ramp place."

"I don't need a damn ramp. And there's no ramp place."

"There is. Lowe's. Now try again."

He tried again. He put his hands under his bandaged leg and lifted. It was heavy, and it hurt like hell, but eventually he moved his leg to the edge of the bed. He was sitting. And Wilson didn't have to manhandle him to do it. He wanted to grin and tapdance. Unfortunately, there were two problems with that statement. One was that he couldn't tapdance, even with an intact leg, and the other one was he didn't want Wilson to know he was even a little happy about this development. He'd get all soft and mushy. He was even smiling stupidly now.

"Nice. See, I told you you could do it!"

"See, I told you you could do it," House mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Now bring my chariot!"

Wilson brought his friend's wheelchair and helped him into it, then wheeled him to the kitchen table and opened his laptop for him.

"Need anything before I go back to work?" he asked, still smiling at House's accomplishment.

"Yeah. Slap that stupid smile off your face."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Second-to-last chapter. Still looking for a beta :)**

"How are you feeling today, Dr. House?" Dr. Smith asked cheerfully.

"Just peachy. When can I walk?" House asked, dreading the answer.

"Well...you've been getting better with the exercises but you're still in a substantial amount of pain during them...you think you're ready to put weight on your leg?"

"I don't want to be a cripple my whole life."

"Hey," Dr. Smith warned. "Don't call yourself that."

"I'll call myself whatever I damn well please. Now when can I walk?"

The physical therapist helped her patient onto the exam table. "You want to keep your sweats on?"

House nodded, still waiting for her answer. She put her hand on the bottom of his right foot.

"Push against my hand," Dr. Smith ordered. House struggled to do it, sweat starting to pour from his brow as his thigh muscles contracted. Finally, he gave up, slumping against the rubber table. His eyes slid shut in exhaustion and defeat.

"That's OK, Dr. House. I can see you're doing a lot better and you are getting some strength back whether you realize it or not. I'll make you a deal, alright? If you do your exercises every day this week, next week we can see about crutches. Does that sound good to you?"

House sighed. He rubbed his bum leg angrily. He had felt so good earlier today, even if he hadn't admitted it. Now, though, the pain and hopelessness were coming back with a vengeance. He didn't have a job, he couldn't shit on his own, and he would probably never walk again. Why the hell did he feel so good earlier? His greatest accomplishment that whole month was _sitting up_. How pathetic.

"Just get me back in my chair." he growled.

"We still have 30 minutes, Dr. House," the young woman protested.

"I don't give a damn. Just get me back in my chair."

Dr. Smith sighed, knowing that if Dr. House didn't want to do something, there was almost no way of convincing him otherwise. She guided the grimacing man back into his wheelchair.

"Should I call Dr. Wilson?" she asked.

"No," House snapped, and barreled out of the room. He didn't know where he was going, he just needed to get away. Down the hall he raced, narrowly avoiding an orderly carrying bags of saline.

"Watch it!" he shouted after House. House kept going. He sped up the escalator ramp to the next floor, ignoring the sign that prohibited strollers and wheelchairs. Recklessly he dodged chairs and signs and desks, ignoring the throbbing, sharp ache in his useless leg.

Suddenly, he careened to a stop, still wheeling. Slowly, he looked up at the culprit. Lisa Cuddy was standing above him, holding the handles of his chair.

"What exactly do you think you're doing in my hospital?" she asked, turning him towards her. He was panting, his chest heaving. This was the most physical activity he'd had in two months. He held his thigh and grimaced, not answering.

Noticing the anger and pain in his eyes, Dr. Cuddy softened. "What's wrong, Dr. House?"

Still the diagnostician didn't answer. He squeezed his leg, hoping the pressure would stave off some of the pain. Finally, he spoke.

"Training...for the cripple Olympics," he panted.

"In my hospital? Why?"

House grimaced again, and winced. All that balancing and turning had done a number on his leg, and now the pain was amping up, and Wilson had his medication.

"Are you OK?" Cuddy asked.

"Fine...just...leave me alone…" he managed.

"I can't tell if you're in pain or out of breath. Which is it?"

"I'm best in the state you know," House said, again not answering her question.

"At what?" she asked

"Wheelchair obstacle course. I've risen through the ranks. Only took me two months. They're thinking about letting me light the torch this year."

"It's not an Olympics year…"

"Oh, they let us gimps do it every year. Makes up for the fact that we can't run, so most of the events are out…" he trailed off, squeezing his leg harder and rubbing at his raw hands.

Cuddy sighed, clearly not buying this ridiculous lie. "Just don't practice in my hospital. There's a track out back you can practice on."

"No obstacles…" House wheezed.

"Should I page Dr. Wilson for you?" the administrator asked.

House nodded reluctantly, rubbing at his leg. He didn't want to need his friend, but he did. Cuddy punched in his pager number.

"So...are they natural…?" House asked, trying to distract himself from the searing pain.

"Is what natural?"

House motioned at her chest. Cuddy glared, not answering. She folded her arms over her ample chest.

Just then, Wilson rushed over. "House! Where were you? Dr. Smith said you left early. What's wrong?"

House closed his eyes against the shooting pain in his thigh. "Meds…" he winced. Wilson quickly got the pill bottle out of his coat pocket and handed it to House, who took a higher dose than he probably should. Wilson didn't notice.

"What were you doing?" the oncologist questioned.

House pointed at an old man in a wheelchair making his way slowly down the hall. "Racing...him. I won."

Wilson rolled his eyes and wheeled House away, nodding blithely at Cuddy as he walked away. Cuddy glared at House a little and clicked away on her too-high heels.

They drove home in silence, House clutching his leg and yelping whenever Wilson hit a bump.

"I'll get you morphine when we get home. It couldn't have been that bad; you didn't even stay for twenty minutes."

House didn't respond, focusing on holding his leg and not screaming. He didn't know how much of a number he had done on his leg until he had gotten in the car, when it started throbbing so much he could feel it under his hand. They'd better get home soon or he was going to throw up in Wilson's car. Thankfully, they were pulling into the driveway, where lumber was piled in the front yard. House was confused until he remembered Wilson was going to build a ramp in front.

Wilson got his friend into his wheelchair and straight to bed. He tapped at the veins in the crook of House's arm.

"Your veins are collapsing. Let me try the other arm."

House moved his other arm closer to Wilson, gritting his teeth. "Hurry…"

"I'm hurrying." Wilson struggled, but finally found a vein to inject the morphine into. He felt House go limp in his grip. The color that had finally come back into his friend's face this morning was gone and replaced with the pallor that Wilson had become accustomed to these past few months. House closed his eyes tensely.

"Still hurts?" Wilson asked. House nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Just wait for it to kick in a little more. Do you need anything?" House shook his head, eyes closed tight.

"Okay, then I'm gonna go get started on the ramp. I'll be right outside. Yell if you need me."

Wilson stepped outside into the cold air and looked at his materials. He had no idea how to start. The last thing he had built was a birdhouse in the shop class he had to take in the seventh grade. He had been much better at home ec. He sighed and sat down on the front steps, wondering why he hadn't just hired a few guys to do this.

"Jimmy!" House yelled for him from inside. He went to the bedroom.

"Yeah?"

"PT exercises..."

"Huh?" Wilson said, confused. Was House actually _reminding _him of the dreaded exercises?

"Need to do them. Crutches in a week if I do them every day. Now do it before I change my mind." House urged. He hoped Wilson didn't see the fear in his expression.

Wilson smiled a little. "Okay, what did she tell you to do?"


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This is the last chapter and I really hope you enjoy it and be sure to tell me what you thought! Look out for my next story, which is a rewrite of season 1, episode 11. I believe it will be called 'Detox'. I'm still looking for a beta! Love all of you :)**

The next week, House's work paid off. Sitting in his living room were a pair of crutches. He admired them from his spot on the bed. The past week had done a number on his pain levels, but it had been worth it. He didn't have to sit in that cripple wagon anymore and have people stare at him wherever he went. Now, at least when he was sitting down, he looked like a normal guy.

Wilson came in his room after his post-PT nap to rouse him. He had noticed a positive change in his friend this past week. He believed it was because House had a goal, something to look forward to. The PT exercises he had had to inflict on him were bad, and even worse when House cried for him to stop, screamed at him that it was all his fault. But they had gotten through this week. He hoped it would be better now that House was able to get up on his own, get his own meds, breakfast...Wilson was even thinking about moving back to his own house soon; maybe giving his friend some privacy.

"House?" Wilson roused him by shaking his shoulder. His friend moaned tiredly.

"Do you want to try your crutches?" he asked. This got his friend's attention and he opened his eyes. They were a little clearer now. Wilson had been titrating down the morphine dosage as much as possible, though House was still in a considerable amount of pain, especially during exercises.

House nodded, painfully swinging his legs to over the side of the bed. He gestured for Wilson to bring the crutches over, and he obliged. Slowly, House lifted himself up. Vertical now, he tried to take a few paces. Slowly, he made his way to the living room and turned on the TV, switching the channel to one of his beloved soaps. He stood there watching it, keeping his right leg carefully off the ground.

"Do you wanna sit down…?" Wilson asked, smiling gleefully at his friend's achievement.

House shook his head. "I just got up. Why would I want that?"

"Well, don't overexert yourself. You still have a long way to go."

"Thank you, Nurse Wilson."

Wilson smiled and sat next to where House was standing. He assumed that that was the closest he'd ever get to a thanks for all he had done for House these past few months, and it was enough for him. He knew that he would help his friend on the road ahead as much as possible-or as much as House would let him. A sense of calm rode over him, and he felt for the first time since the infarction that everything might just turn out OK.


End file.
